


The Progeny

by eldritcher



Series: The Song of Sunset, The Second Age [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:31:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4007716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gil-Galad has always hated Maedhros for being the reason behind his parents’ unhappy lives. When Maedhros approaches him on the eve of the arrival of the forces from the west and asks him to take Elrond and Elros into his care, old grudges burst forth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Progeny

“Gil, they have arrived.” 

The young king looked up from a map of his lands and nodded to Círdan. The mariner did not leave, his face marred by hesitance as he weighed words in his mind.

“What is it, my lord?” Gil-Galad straightened and met his foster-father’s eyes steadily. 

“Be civil,” Círdan sighed. “I don’t want you to treat him as you usually do.”

“He deserves to suffer for all that he wreaked on my parents’ lives. He was the reason why I am an orphan.” Gil-Galad’s voice did not hold the slightest measure of conciliation.

“Have I been such a bad fosterer that you feel you are orphaned?” Círdan smiled wanly. 

Before the king could again speak, Círdan shook his head and left the chamber. Gil-Galad cursed under his breath and walked over to the window. He could see a strong contingent of soldiers in Círdan’s courtyard. Certainly, Maedhros still commanded a goodly number. Gil-Galad wondered what made the warriors pledge their continued allegiance to one so destructively insane.

×××

 

He arrayed himself in his finest for the dinner. He knew that it was foolish to show his royalty off. But he wanted to show the Fëanorions that he was every inch as worthy as his father and grandfather had been. They would not dare treat him as an orphan now that the crown rested on his head.

He was early for the dinner. Maglor was aimlessly loitering in the hall, occasionally pausing to inspect a painting or a work of art. Gil-Galad felt a pang of involuntary sadness when he observed Maglor’s unhealthy pallor. It seemed a sharp fall from the days he had looked up in awe at the aloof, handsome prince.

The head of the table was Círdan’s place. But usually Maedhros would sit to his right. Not this day, Gil-Galad decided as he pulled the chair to the right for himself. Things had changed. He waited impatiently for Maglor to acknowledge him. 

“Ada!” The door opened and shut quickly letting in a young lad who looked like some eastern dervish, all dancing grey eyes and dark, unbound hair.

Maglor smiled warmly and suffered an enthusiastic embrace before stepping back and running an appraising eye over his charge. Gil-Galad turned his head away. It reminded him of what he had never had; a parent’s love. Even Elwing’s sons were fortunate enough amidst all their losses. 

“You look awfully pale, Ada. I think you should venture out into the sunlight more. It will improve your colour.” The young lad chattered on despite Maglor’s unwillingness to hold conversation. “Elrond was saying that this place is very large. It seems there are fishing boats and taverns and smithies and stables and more. Can we see all of it? Please?” 

“Certainly. I see no reason why you should not. Now summon your brother from whatever he is up to and makes yourselves presentable for the dinner,” Maglor said, flavouring his words with the mildest overtones of sternness. 

The dervish disappeared as abruptly as it had come into the room. Maglor met Gil-Galad’s cold gaze and cleared his throat. 

“That was Elros,” Maglor offered after a long silence.

“I don’t recall Eärendil telling me his sons’ names.”

“Eärendil did not name them. My brother did.”

“He is excellent in naming orphans. I did never thank him for bestowing a name upon me, his lover’s unfortunate mistake.” Gil-Galad’s withering sarcasm would have melted butter on the coldest of days.

“I did tell him that it was a wasted effort.” Maglor shrugged and returned to his inspection of the paintings. “But I will not question his judgment. I still believe he wasted a good name.”

“I am king,” Gil-Galad said redundantly.

“And your father was king before you. Forgive me if I tell you that I worry about your longevity. The crown did not seem to rest too securely upon the heads of your forefathers.”

Gil-Galad fought down the urge to shout at Maglor. It would not serve any purpose other than bringing Círdan’s wrath down upon him. 

“So once you return the hostages what do you plan to do?” he retorted coldly. 

Maglor raised an eyebrow at the term ‘hostages’ and did not deign to reply at all. Gil-Galad cursed. He should have known better than trying to ruffle Maglor’s famed calm. 

The door opened once again and Círdan came in, his features animated as he escorted Maedhros and the young lads. Círdan’s words ceased when he noticed Gil-Galad in the chair usually taken by Maedhros. Gil-Galad glared at him defiantly. 

“Ereinion!” Maedhros advanced towards him, warmth softening his gaunt features. “Allow me to congratulate you on the wonderful work you have done in uniting the Noldor.”

Gil-Galad noticed that Maedhros was moving more slowly than his customary pace. The years had taken a toll even on the white flame of Himring. Just as Maedhros deserved, Gil-Galad thought furiously.

The occupants of the chamber were awaiting the king’s reply to the greeting. Gil-Galad could see apprehension and sadness darkening Maedhros’s grey eyes. But he remembered the lonely orphan whose only companions were invisible friends that he had created himself. And he remembered who had been responsible for that. He deigned to give a bare nod of acknowledgement before turning his face away. 

“This is the king?” Elros’s hushed voice asked.

“Yes,” Maedhros said pensively. “My lord high-king, let me present to you our charges, Elros and Elrond.”

“Shall we start the dinner? I am hungry,” Gil-Galad said brusquely.

Círdan made to speak, anger shining in his eyes at the king’s rudeness to his guest. But Maedhros placed a hand on the mariner’s shoulder and nodded assent. Círdan sighed and signaled the servants to bring the dishes in. 

Elros boldly took up the seat to Gil-Galad’s right. The king wondered at the self-confidence that exuded from every pore of the lad. 

The servants retreated and silence cloistered the hall. 

“How is Artanis?” Maglor leant forward to ask Círdan.

“She fares well,” Círdan replied. “She is on the council of Lindon and aids Gil as much as she can.”

Maglor nodded and turned his attention to the food. To his right sat Elrond, who was staring at Gil-Galad and Círdan with deep curiosity. The king could see innate nobility and wisdom on those young features. Elrond Eärendilion would bear watching.

“Lindon is a large city. Will they able to be cope with the exposure that shall be their lot? Everyone is curious about how hostages fostered by you have turned out.” Gil-Galad asked off-handedly.

“The children are wise and well-taught,” Círdan answered before Maglor could start a haughty reply. “I see no reason why they would feel insecure in Lindon. They have kin there, in Galadriel and you.”

The sound of cutlery was starting to pound Gil-Galad’s head. He glanced across at Maedhros, who was idly sipping at his wine, the grey eyes lost in the misty depths of thought.

“Ada,” Elros piped up. “Elrond and your brother are not eating.”

Maglor narrowed his eyes at the young lad for the breach of table manners and Elros meekly bowed his head. 

“Isn’t my foster-father’s table good enough for you, Lord Maedhros?” Gil-Galad asked maliciously, seeing awareness return to Maedhros’s eyes.

“Gil,” Círdan chastised. 

Maglor had stopped eating and was now watching him warily. Elrond sighed and picked up his goblet of wine, shooting his brother a cold glance for having prompted the conversation in this direction.

The fosterlings were unnaturally attached to their guardians, Gil-Galad noted darkly. How had Maglor and Maedhros achieved that?

“Círdan’s fare has always been above reproach, my king,” Maedhros replied evenly, though turmoil shone in his eyes as he spoke. 

He brought his left hand to the plate and took up a spoon. Gil-Galad felt malicious triumph rising in his blood. He had set the fare for the dinner since Círdan had been occupied by other concerns. He had ensured that all the dishes necessitated a goodly truce between a spoon and a fork. Maedhros seemed to realize the fact for he placed the spoon back onto the table and met the king’s unyielding gaze.

“Are you insulting my brother, Círdan?” Maglor asked furiously as he too understood the significance of the dishes chosen.

Círdan threw his foster-son an angry glare before apologizing profusely, “No, my prince. That would never be my intention. It was merely an oversight on my part.”

“Don’t lay blame at the feet of those innocent, brother,” Maedhros said quietly. “I am sure that it was merely an unfortunate choice by the chefs. Come, let us not sully our conversation with matters of unworthy import. Círdan, you mentioned that your new boats have inbuilt compasses.”

“Yes!” Círdan leant forward and began an excruciatingly boring tale of his experiments to modernize his fleet. 

×××

 

Gil-Galad retired to his chambers in a foul temper. He had succeeded in unsettling Maedhros. But the damn Fëanorion had been far too diplomatic to let it show. All that the king’s rudeness had achieved was probably antagonizing the young lads he was to take under his protection. Ruefully, he walked to the window and gazed up at the clear night skies. Once again, he was an orphan standing alone and bereft of friends and family. Círdan’s aloof affection had not melted away the icy unhappiness in the orphan’s heart. 

“May I come in?” Maedhros’s quiet voice broke into his dreary musings.

Gil-Galad did not turn to welcome his unwelcome guest. His fingers clenched on the sill of the window when he heard Maedhros stoking the fire to greater warmth.

“I prefer it low,” he said sharply.

“No, you prefer it warm. You preferred it warm when you were younger,” Maedhros said simply before moving to join him at the window.

“How would you know?” Gil-Galad asked bitterly. “High-kings might merit such attention. But orphans certainly don’t. At least orphans did not seem worthy of your attention.”

“You have always disliked me,” Maedhros remarked. “You hold me responsible for driving your father away from your mother.”

“You are guilty on that charge,” Gil-Galad shrugged. “I have been toying with the idea of making adultery punishable in Lindon. I shall not have any suffer what I have been through.”

“Ereinion!” The calmness that had characterized Maedhros fell away abruptly leaving behind grief and weariness. Gil-Galad was forced to drop his eyes in the face of such deep emotion. 

“I did not drive your father away from your mother.” Maedhros’s voice was resigned to disbelief on his companion’s part. 

Such power was there in Maedhros’s eyes that Gil-Galad actually began to entertain the thought of dropping the subject. 

“Explain.” He gritted his teeth angrily at his weakness of not continuing with the cruelty he had decided upon.

“I have always wished to spare you the truth. I thought it would be for the best,” Maedhros said sadly. “Your parents were not married.”

“And you are the reason for that,” Gil-Galad said bitterly.

“I did not even know that your father had engendered you until Círdan wrote to inform me. Your father was under the impression that your mother had not been fertile when they had coupled. She tricked him,” Maedhros finished disconsolately. “I wish you had not asked me, Ereinion.”

“I cannot take your word for this tale. My mother told me that they had been in love,” Gil-Galad whispered.

“Círdan can attest to what I say,” Maedhros murmured, his voice broken by deep emotion that Gil-Galad no longer believed in his long-held view that his companion hated him.

“She lied.” Gil-Galad fisted a hand and struck the frame of the window forcefully, letting the physical pain wash over his mental distress. 

“She tried to spare you, I believe,” Maedhros said dully, “just as I had tried. I suppose some things can never stay buried.” 

“Neither of them wanted me.” Gil-Galad cursed and strode over to the fireplace to conceal his pain from Maedhros. He wanted to be alone. But he was sick of being alone. “It is worse than being an orphan. I am now king, yet they still have the power to wound me.”

Maedhros did not reply though Gil-Galad heard the discreet clearing of a throat. 

“I seem to have misjudged you.”

“No,” Maedhros said hastily, “I could have done more. I could have brought you to my lands. I am terribly sorry that I did nothing more than sending you to Círdan’s care.”

Gil-Galad did not reply. A fiery spasm of painful rage was burning him. Nobody had cared if he lived. He had just been as dispensable and trivial as a piece of furniture in the mariner’s castle.

“There are so many reasons, some valid and others not so valid…” Maedhros murmured. “I didn’t want to bring you to Himring. It was no place for young lads. Too many young boys have I led into battle and to many mothers have I broken the news of the child’s death on the field. I would never have made a good foster-father. There were no women in my household. And if I did not return one day, I worried what would happen to you. My brother had never been fond of your father and I feared that he would not prove a good guardian in my lieu. I wanted the best for you. My only option was Círdan.”

“Why do I believe you now?” Gil-Galad asked angrily. “I used to stand on the shore and close my eyes, hoping that the waves would bring me people who loved me enough to fill in the hollow left by my parents. I read stories of my father’s valour, trying to get to know him through them. I convinced myself that they had loved me deeply. I convinced myself that you were the only reason why I did not have a family.”

Maedhros did not reply. Gil-Galad turned around to face him. The Fëanorion seemed exhausted and sad. But his mien was set in determination. Gil-Galad knew instinctively that he would get all the answers he had craved if he wished so now.

“Why now?” he asked, disturbed.

“Because I may never see you again.” Maedhros raked his hand through the unruly tresses that crowned him. 

“Where are you going?”

“Frankly, I have no idea.”

“Come to Lindon. We will need every able body to fight in this war.” Gil-Galad did not know what had made him offer. He bit down on his tongue as he realized how contradictory he must sound.

“I cannot.”

“If it is your cursed pride, then I promise you that you can command your own men. You need not even address me as ‘king’. I--”

“Ereinion, greater forces are at work here. My part in our family saga is drawing to a close. It is your turn to rise and burn with the fire in our blood.”

“Why did you name me ‘Ereinion’?” Gil-Galad asked quietly. “Always, I had wondered.”

Maedhros’s face took on a shade of wistfulness as he stepped nearer and examined his companion’s features. He brought a shaking hand to caress Gil-Galad’s face in a paternal gesture. The touch left Gil-Galad broken. He had never been touched in affection by any other being. His breath caught in his throat and something suspiciously wet burned his eyes.

“If I had a son, I would have named him Ereinion.”

The words undid Gil-Galad’s tight hold on his emotions and he shook his head disbelievingly. 

“Were you his lover?” he asked to quell the rising tide of emotions that threatened him. 

Maedhros’s hand fell as if scalded. Gil-Galad felt acute anguish at the loss of contact. But he was proud and would not ask for more than had been freely given.

“I was never your father’s lover, Ereinion,” Maedhros said in a low voice ridden by pain and harrowing unhappiness. “But the rumours are not without substance.”

“Wh-” Gil-Galad began uncomprehendingly. He admired the sheer courage which Maedhros must have possessed to meet his gaze fearlessly despite the very high probability of his censure.

"I regretted it deeply afterwards, for it broke us both.” 

“I don’t understand,” the king said, perplexed by Maedhros’s careful choice of words.

“I hope you never have to. Such things are better left unspoken.” Maedhros shrugged, offering a wan smile. “You remind me of my uncle. I am sure that you will be every inch the ruler your grandfather had been.”

“I am sorry,” Gil-Galad murmured uncomfortably. “I have indeed treated you most unfairly.”

“Let the past remain in the past,” Maedhros said easily as he brushed Gil-Galad’s shoulder in a gesture of affection. 

“I was responsible for the charade at dinner. I arranged the fare on purpose,” Gil-Galad rued. 

Maedhros laughed. It was a low, clear sound the likes of which Gil-Galad had never caused in anyone before. A tentative smile broke on his features as he watched Maedhros struggling to control his mirth.

“What is so amusing?”

“My brother does the same thing at dinners when he is miffed at me. He knows I would rather starve rather than disgracing myself with the cutlery.”

“He lets you go without?” Gil-Galad asked, aghast. He knew Maglor was ruthless, but he had always assumed that the ruthlessness melted when it came to Maedhros.

“He does not,” Maedhros assured him hastily. “He merely arranges for a sumptuous repast after I apologize for whatever I did to vex him.”

“Then shall I do the same?” he asked impulsively.

A slow smile warmed Maedhros’s features as he replied, “The servants would have all retired, Ereinion.”

“I will wake them. Please,” Gil-Galad’s voice broke on the words, “I have never had voluntary company for a meal.”

“Don’t wake the poor aides. Come away with me to the kitchens and we will manage.”

×××

 

It seemed unreal to Gil-Galad, the way they crept into the kitchens as quiet as mice. Maedhros waved off his half-hearted offer of help and bade him sit down on a chair at the dirty kitchen table. 

Gil-Galad watched in unbridled curiosity as Maedhros fiddled about with pots and pans humming softly under his breath.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Gil-Galad asked curiously.

“The song?” Maedhros raised an eyebrow. “From my brother, of course. I admit he does better justice to the tune than I can.”

“No, the cooking.” Gil-Galad gestured to the merrily boiling pot over the fire. The fire, Gil-Galad noted, had been made exactly the way he preferred it; warm and cosy. 

“That is a fall-out of long days spent in your father’s company during our idle youth. We used to camp outside. He was an appalling cook.”

Gil-Galad stared in wonder at the twinkle in Maedhros’s eyes as the latter spoke with revered regret about Fingon. 

“Of course, my culinary skills are strictly limited to dishes that can be managed easily with one hand,” Maedhros demurred as he saw admiration on Gil-Galad’s features. “Macalaurë cooks well though he rarely deigns to do so. Elrond and Elros changed all that. They would bribe him; a meal prepared by him in return for a relatively peaceful day.” 

Gil-Galad envied the affection that had coloured Maedhros’s words while speaking of Elrond and Elros. He pushed the thoughts away. He was the king. His craving to find parental love must end. But he could not stop talking. He could not stop asking. Maedhros was extremely patient and answered each question with his customary thoughtfulness. Gil-Galad was surprised when he heard that Círdan and Maedhros had corresponded during the days of Gil-Galad’s youth keeping track of his life. 

“I know that you hated arithmetic,” Maedhros smiled. “And I know that you started liking it after Círdan arranged for a pretty, young woman to teach you.”

Gil-Galad shook his head in plain bewilderment at the admission. All his life he had hated Maedhros for driving a wedge between his parents and now he was learning that Maedhros had been perhaps the only person who cared.

“Here you are, over-boiled vegetables and half-roasted lamb chops.” Maedhros placed a dish before him with an extravagant flourish.

“Well, I did eat during the dinner. We came to see you fed,” Gil-Galad said uneasily, taken aback by the warmth in the grey eyes he had hated so.

“I was not entirely forthright with you earlier, Ereinion.” Wistfulness graced Maedhros’s features. “I cannot stomach even the best dishes conjured up by the most excellent cooks. I am quite confined to milk and honey.”

“What happened?” Gil-Galad asked disbelievingly. That elves suffered from such conditions was something he knew. He had seen it enough in the seasick sailors who loathed the scent of food and drink. But Maedhros must have been hardened enough by his long life.

“No particular reason, I believe,” Maedhros said pensively. “But do eat lest all my efforts go in waste. I might even bring myself to a helping of the chops.”

“Did you often cook for Elrond and Elros?”

“Heavens, no!” Maedhros laughed. “I never cook except when I am without other recourse. In fact, after Valinor, I believe it is the first time that I have cooked.”

“Your skills remain untarnished then,” Gil-Galad offered, even as his heart constricted in plain joy at Maedhros’s statement.

“My mother used to say that skills learnt cannot be unlearnt,” Maedhros remarked. 

“Why didn’t you ever marry if you weren’t really my father’s lover?” Gil-Galad asked as he chewed slowly on the well-done lamb chops.

Maedhros sighed and pulled a chair beside Gil-Galad. He seated himself and rested his head on his arm before saying thoughtfully, “I might have, you know. Had things been different, I might have married. Indeed,” his eyes shone in suppressed mirth, “one of my earliest ambitions was to marry a woman who took after my mother. I admire my mother.”

“Why didn’t she come with you?” Gil-Galad had a thousand questions. He wanted answers. He knew he would never have the chance again.

“I would have died rather than pulling her into the madness. It was bad enough that Artanis and Irissë followed us.”

“There was no love in my father’s life?”

“Oh, yes,” Maedhros said quietly, “he loved deeply. All of us loved deeply. I am sure that it will be the same for you; you will love and be loved. Whatever our curses, Ereinion, we shall always remain loved and in love.”

“I met my father only once. I hated you deeply then. I vowed to him that I would never love a Fëanorion,” Gil-Galad murmured uncomfortably. “I wish I hadn’t said that.”

“Well, fate has a way of back-handing you. My brother, Curufin, used to say that we end up loving that we hate. It was certainly proved true in his case.”

“And in yours, my lord?” Gil-Galad grinned at the sudden discomposure that played on Maedhros’s features.

“I ended up loving what I always had loved.” Maedhros once again exhibited a judicious choice of words. A smile lit his face when he saw Gil-Galad’s rueful headshake at the tactful answer.

“I will not gain more light on the matter?” Gil-Galad pried, the late hour and the unorthodox setting wearing down his natural respect for others’ privacy.

“No,” Maedhros chuckled. “Personally, I have no objections in telling you. But it is a shared secret and I am sure that he would castrate me were I to divulge his identity.”

“He’d have to face Maglor before he got to you though,” Gil-Galad opined. A strange emotion flickered in those remarkable grey eyes. 

But before Gil-Galad could question Maedhros, the latter commented nonchalantly, “I am sure that he is possessed of better sense than picking a fight with my brother. Now, it grows nearer to dawn. Is it a wise idea to be found thus? They might force us to wash the dishes. That is a task I am not overmuch fond of.”

×××

 

Gil-Galad set out to Lindon the next morning. He turned back to see four people standing on the ramparts of Círdan’s castle. The familiar figure of Maglor’s wife waved to him and the king waved back. She had been the only female influence in his youth. He would always remember her fondly as a woman of great sensibility and tact. Next to her stood Maglor, his features brooding and sad as he watched Elrond and Elros ride away. He certainly loved his foster-sons. Círdan and Maedhros stood together, the mariner’s features unusually serene as he spoke to his companion.

Impulse made Gil-Galad raise his hand in a farewell salute to Maedhros. A warm smile lit his features when Maedhros brought his hand to his chest and sketched a theatrical bow.

×××

 

The 2nd Age,  
Mordor.

 

“It is too early,” Erestor murmured unhappily as he buckled his armour on. “It is not even dawn yet. You are crueler than a slave driver. How can you expect me to be out of bed now when you exacted such a performance from me yesterday night?”

Gil-Galad chuckled at his companion’s complaint and ducked neatly when an empty kettle was flung in his general direction. 

“Gil,” Círdan entered the tent. “I’d like a moment alone with you.”

“I shall wait outside,” Erestor said with a quick smile. “I will try to pick an argument with someone and liven myself up.”

“Let it not be Celeborn!” Círdan called after him.

“Why not Celeborn?” Gil-Galad asked his foster-father interestedly. 

“He is in one of his ‘I-hate-the-bloody-Noldor’ moods,” Círdan replied with a faint smile. “I am glad that it is Thranduil who will have to deal with him and not any of us.”

“Thranduil can charm the fur off a bear if he wants,” Gil-Galad said grudgingly. “He is the best person to manage Celeborn in these moods.”

“How are you?” Círdan’s question was bald and without preface.

“Merely worried,” Gil-Galad admitted. “And frightened. It will be the end, one way or the other.”

“I know.”

“I will not return,” Gil-Galad whispered. “I know I will not.”

Círdan sighed and stepped forward to embrace his foster-son. “I wish I could die for you, Gil. I have lived more than I care to.”

“You must remain, my lord.” Gil-Galad’s voice broke on the words. “You must see that what we built does not fall apart. You were ever the succour of our house. Most of us would not be what we are but for your kindness. You are my father in all but blood.”

“I wish it were so,” Círdan shook his head sadly and stepped away from the embrace. His eyes roved over Gil-Galad’s features as if seeking to etch them into memory. “But I did never bring to you the happiness that Maedhros managed to give in one single day. Blood calls to blood, Gil.”

“I was thinking of them this morning…of my father, of my grandfather and mostly of Maedhros. If he had ruled-”

“He knew the future, Gil,” Círdan smiled sadly, deep grief rimming his eyes. “He made me swear that I would give you something when the right time arrived. Come with me.”

Gil-Galad walked with Círdan to the mariner’s tent, his heart thudding as he heard the trumpets of Sauron. Each bugle heralded his death. 

“Here it is.” 

Círdan pulled off a cloth cover from something stationed in the middle of the chamber. Gil-Galad inhaled sharply when he saw the highly-polished mail-suit. It was fashioned in the manner of the lords of the Eldar, built for lightness and durability. His fingers shook as his hand hovered over the suit.

“May I help you?” 

“Yes, please.” His voice was hoarse. He closed his eyes, willing away the memories. 

Círdan silently helped him don the mail. Finally, Gil-Galad asked, “It is not just any steel, is it?”

“No,” Círdan murmured, “he said it is an alloy. It will hasten the spread of heat…so that-”

“So that I don’t die painfully,” Gil-Galad whispered. 

Círdan’s fingers faltered and the mariner said quietly, “You are one of the bravest people I have known.”

"I am happy." The king's voice almost broke as he spoke. "It is fitting that his legacy comes to me; that fire shall herald my end too."

"You are his son, Gil," Cirdan said quietly. "He had always loved you thus."

“I wish-", Gil-Galad cut off his sentence with a rueful shake of his head. "Take care of Galadriel, Círdan. She is alone, but for her fickle husband.I would not want her to be unhappy.”

“She is quite capable of managing her own concerns, Gil, as you well ought to know by now.” A faint sparkle of mirth rose in Círdan’s eyes. 

Gil-Galad chuckled and walked out of the tent, carrying his helm. Erestor was arguing with Celeborn, their faces flushed by the early-morning verbal exertion.

“Ereinion!” Erestor exclaimed in surprise when he took in the sight of his king. Something akin to reverence stirred on his features as he spoke in a hushed voice, “You look like a star.”

“Even the stars fall,” Gil-Galad remarked quietly. 

“Must you be so morbid in the morning?” Erestor raised an eyebrow in a manner that never failed to remind Gil-Galad of Maglor. 

“Come, Círdan,” Celeborn called to the mariner. “I need your advice on something.”

Círdan did not look back at Gil-Galad as he followed Celeborn to the barracks. For that, the king was utterly grateful.

“I mean it, you shine as bright as Elbereth’s stars,” Erestor whispered as he came to stand before the king. “Círdan’s gift becomes you extremely well.”

“Indeed?” Gil-Galad pulled him closer so that their faces were but inches away from each other.

“My only fear,” Erestor breathed against the king’s ear, “is that you will be the centre of attraction on the battlefield.”

“Let me have my day of glory! Haven’t you always stolen the limelight away from me with your reckless war-exploits?” Gil-Galad laughed away his companion’s fear.

“Come back to me,” Erestor whispered as he took the helm from the king’s hands and placed it carefully on Gil-Galad’s head.

“I shall, I swear it.”

It was the easiest lie that Gil-Galad had ever spoken in his long life. The radiant smile that lit his companion’s features on hearing those words made the lie all the more worth it.

 

×××


End file.
